


Love Is a Luxury We Cannot Afford

by bgrrl



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, Female Characters, Female Protagonist, Female Relationships, Female Romance, First Kiss, First Time, Romance, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 12:04:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/926190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bgrrl/pseuds/bgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Margaery thinks family, and the throne are everything until she sees Sansa Stark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Is a Luxury We Cannot Afford

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flipflop_diva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flipflop_diva/gifts).



> Thank you to my tireless beta. She is flawless any mistakes are mine.  
> All characters belong to the brilliant Mr. Martin. I'm just playing with them while his back is turned.

It begins in the Great Hall, lords and ladies waiting to see who will rise and who will fall, now that the smoke of the battle has cleared. There Margaery sees Sansa Stark, the girl who once had the throne within reach, the girl who had risen so high, the girl who she’s replacing. Just a glimpse of her hair, fire shot through with gold, standing out against the ivory of her skin. It’s all she can see out of the corner of her eye. Then she turns her head just a slight move, inconspicuous and catches her eyes, blue, ice to the fire of her hair. Sansa is as lovely as people say, but Margaery has never seen anyone look so unhappy. That is what happens when you fail she reminds herself. That is what happens when you fall; it must hurt. Margaery’s fingers twitch of their own volition, wanting to touch, to soothe, she folds her hands in front of her and smiles at another king.

Sansa, a girl with nothing but a name makes a thief of her. She is soft, trusting, honest all the things Margaery cannot allow herself to be. Margaery steals glances and touches and brushes of the hand. With jokes and kind words she takes giggles, and smiles that reach Sansa’s eyes. Margaery hordes the memory of each moment, like a Lannister hordes gold, but still she wants more. They are alone in the garden shielded by her roses, the sun lighting up Sansa’s hair. She lets her lips brush the lobe of Sansa’s ear, when she leans into whisper a secret and inhales. Sansa’s smells like berries, and asters the flower of the north. She memorizes the flush that spreads across Sansa’s cheek. It does nothing to quench her desire. It is only when Sansa takes her hand, laces their fingers together and rests her head on Margaery’s shoulder, turning so that her lips brush against the bare skin of Margaery’s neck; it is only when that simple act makes her own eyes slip close, it is only when she hears the soft sigh escape her lips that Margaery realizes she is falling. Sansa squeezes her hand and moves closer but Margaery cannot fall, not when she has climbed so high, not when there is so much to lose.

In the evenings Loras dines with her. The windows to her chamber are open and the candles flicker in the breeze. The scent of fruit and roasted meats fills the room. Neither of them are hungry. She lies across the chaise with her head in Loras’ lap and he strokes her hair.

“You must marry Sansa.” Margaery says. It is a plea more than a demand, desperate. She and Loras have been here before. His fingers still. She gets up walks to the window, leans out and lets the breeze cool her skin, takes a breath, the city stinks. “Take her to Highgarden, away from all of this.” She feels his eyes on her back, and hears the rustle of silk as he walks across the room, then Loras’ arms are around her, pulling her close.

“You mean away from you.” She tips her head back and he smiles at her soft and fond. He knows.

“I don’t love her,” Margaery says turning, pushing him away but he holds her tight.

“Because you won’t allow yourself to.” He runs his hand down her back soothing, until she stills.

“Love is a luxury we cannot afford,” Margaery whispers into his chest.

“I know,” Loras says burying his face in her hair.

Sansa is elated by the promise of freedom and a husband who seems the perfect embodiment of all her girlish fantasies. Margaery thinks Sansa should know Loras is too good to be true. It’s a mean thought but she can’t help herself. Sitting in the afternoon heat with the two of them listening to their wedding plans, Margaery keeps her eyes on the needlework in her lap, another rose. A whisper and then a giggle, and Margaery doesn’t have to look up to know that Sansa is blushing. Loras isn't even using the most formidable weapons in his arsenal of charms. Her stomach knots. She has to swallow the taste of bile and envy. She wonders if this is how it was for Loras. Did he envy her sitting beside Renly in place that was rightfully his? At least he had enemies to fight, at least he had Renly. Margaery has only herself. Mercilessly she whips her foolish heart into submission, smiles at them, looks at the ring upon her own finger, Lannister’s gold, and reminds herself to climb.

She spends her mornings with Joffrey, knows all the wicked words that are the key to his heart. His affection is just another rung on the climb. She pretends to be a monster and pulls herself a little higher, a little closer to the throne. Her plan fails and Sansa falls again, caught tangled in the Lannister’s net. Margaery cannot free her so she takes her arm and leads her down the path, and tells Sansa to make the best of it but she doesn’t think her sweet girl understands. They are walking by the water, the sand and rocks making them slip, the wind tangling their hair.

“Shall we go back?” Margaery asks when they’ve wandered so far that they're standing at the mouth of one of the Red Keep’s many tunnels. “If you’re brave we can use the tunnel.” Margaery laughs as she steps inside.

“Pretty girls?” Sansa says stepping into the tunnel behind her.

Margaery turns, looks at Sansa. “What about them?”

“You said some women like them.”

“I did say that,” and suddenly Margaery can’t breathe, because Sansa is stepping towards her tentative and afraid.

“Do you like pretty girls?” Her voice is trembling, and her eyes are scared but there is something else underneath the fear.

“Yes.” Margaery says taking Sansa’s hand pulling her close and rising on her toes to press their lips together.

Margaery expects hesitance, but there is none. Sansa’s lips part eagerly.  Her nails dig into Margaery's flesh like claws and her grip is like iron. Sansa holds her in place as if she would run away, as if she could run from this.  Sansa’s kiss is all teeth and tongue. It is fierce and desperate. Margaery runs her hands along Sansa’s arms soothing, feeling the pattern of the embroidery beneath her fingers.  She pulls back, panting and looks at Sansa. Margaery wants to tell her she can’t that the price is too high, but Sansa speaks first.

“Please,” her voice is trembling and her cheeks are flushed, “I don’t want him to be first.” It should be easy to refuse, offer her Loras, he would do this for her. It is not easy because Sansa is watching her, waiting, looking at Margaery like she is more than a prize to be traded among kings. She is too weak not to take this.  Margaery twists her fingers through the silken flames of Sansa’s hair, pulls Sansa’s head back and drags her mouth slow and wet along the ivory column of Sana’s neck. Sansa’s pulse is racing, she can feel it.

“He won’t be first.” Margaery says as she lowers them to the cold damp stone of the tunnel floor.  The stone is hard beneath her knees, but Sansa’s hands are soft and warm as they slip beneath the silk of her dress. Sansa’s tentative, questing touch makes her breath catch in her throat, makes her fingers clumsy as she works the lacings of Sansa’s dress, pushes up her skirts. Margaery knows that this could ruin the Tyrells, make them nothing but a lesson in a song, a cautionary tale to tell.  She has to carry them all on her climb father, grandmother, Loras and all the Tyrells ; their weight has never felt heavier.  Margaery wishes for armor because she has no defense against the softness of Sansa’s body against her own, the way Sansa breathes her name, the way she tastes.  No defense against this reckless folly that leaves them slick, hot, panting and shaking in this dark place. For the first time Margaery sees all that Sansa could be, what they could be together.  She turns away because she is hanging by a thread.

“Come, we’ll be missed.” Margaery says straightening her dress as she rises.

“I-” Sansa starts to speak  Margaery knows she cannot hold on if Sansa says the words, written so clearly on her face. Margaery gathers her strength and pulls herself up.

“You, are to marry Lord Tyrion.” Margaery says the words firmly, with finality like she is giving an order like she is queen.  The words taste like ash, but she cannot have more than this. She turns her back and waits for Sansa to dress, then she takes her hand and leads her into the darkness and back to the Red Keep.

 


End file.
